


Despoiled

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frank discussion of Abortion, Korean War, M/M, Mpreg, Psychotic break, Rape, Suicide Attempt, alcohol use, rape by a Korean soldier not Trapper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25632754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Hawkeye hadn't expected this. Not the sudden, brutal attack that hit like a blinding headache, the way he'd been tossed against the tree.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Hawkeye/North Korean soldier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Despoiled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Jen! I hope you enjoy this, with as much angst and mayhem as I could manage at the last minute. :P

Hawkeye doesn't know how this happened. He was lowered from a helicopter to the ground to tend to an injured soldier, and now he's got his face scraped up against a tree trunk, his fatigues at his ankles, ripped from his body in one motion. And the stream of Korean he hears behind him tells him all he needs to know.

He had never even seen them coming. He had been trying to massage a heart into beating again, without being able to open the soldier up—and transferring him would have killed him for sure—when the Korean soldiers captured him. Hawkeye hadn't expected _this_ , though. Not the sudden, brutal attack that hit like a blinding headache, the way he'd been tossed against the tree. He'd heard the gun cock moments later and didn't dare move.

The Korean invective pauses, and fingers roughly shove his cheeks apart, delving inside with no consideration, breaching his body without any sort of preparation. Hawkeye stiffens from the sudden pain, his body rebelling at what's coming… even as the fingers jam up into him, and they brush against his prostate. Hawkeye knows that's unintentional, but it makes his cock stiffen too, even where it's being rubbed raw by the bark of the tree.

"Please, I'm not that kind of man," he says, pleading in the key of humor, like he can't help himself; on the verge of being raped by the enemy and he's hoping they'll speak English _and_ appreciate his humor? He's out of his mind.

The Korean behind him screams into his ear, words he can't understand but suspects mean he should shut up. Hawkeye's never been good at following directions, though.

"If this is a stick-up, my money is in my other pants," he says. The Korean can't understand him, he knows that, but when the man's cock shoves into him viciously, he winces at the screaming burn. His mouth is suddenly glued shut, except for pained grunts after every thrust. He wants to make light—to joke, God, only a joke so he doesn't open his mouth, start screaming and never stop—but there's nothing funny about this, no matter how he tries.

His entire front is raw and bloody when the Korean stops holding him up, and he slumps against the tree, sliding down until his legs are in an ungainly sprawl and his breath is like knives in his chest. His cock is weeping blood from tiny cuts and the Korean has pulled out, leaving a shattering ache in the place of his dick. His hole throbs and shrieks in pain, as if someone is consistently stabbing him with needles. It fucking hurts, and Hawkeye is only waiting to die, now.

But then the birdsong resumes, and the woods go silent around him, no Korean voices, no click of the gun, no muzzle to the back of his head. Hawkeye claws his way up the trunk of the tree, tearing his nails to ragged edges, and he slowly, uncertainly turns. The woods are empty in front of him.

His knees try to buckle, but he hangs onto the tree, holding himself up; blood drips between his thighs, mingling with semen.

Hawkeye could never have anticipated that this could ever happen to him. And, as he moves on wobbly legs, he finds that the soldier he'd tried to help is lying dead—his face grey, blood pooled on his lips and chest, lips blue. His chest has been crushed by a boot, and Hawkeye feels a tremor of apprehension and revulsion.

Those damn soldiers had murdered this man before they raped him. Hawkeye is grateful, in a dim-dark gallows sort of way, that he survived. That rape compared to death is hardly worth even noting.

Hawkeye yanks his pants up; they're torn, but his belt is hanging from the loops, and he manages to get it fastened so they stay up. He forces his legs to steady, runs out of the forested area, waves his arms. The helicopter sees him, and soon, Hawkeye is being airlifted away.

_And that's the end of it, don't think of it again,_ he tells himself. He tells the pilot the soldier didn't make it and they need to send someone to collect the body.

But that isn't the end of it. Not by a long shot.

++

It begins with his sense of smell. Suddenly mess tent food smells worse than ever. It turns his stomach, and Hawkeye can't even sniff it anymore—it's a foul stench that coats the inside of his nose; no matter where he is in the compound, it's like he can smell that moldering surplus food. He doesn't understand it and he can't explain it, so he tells himself it's fine.

Everything will be fine.

But suddenly Adam's Ribs sounds like food he _has to have_. And at night, lying in bed, he'll kick his feet up and realize his ankles are swollen. He has to piss every ten minutes.

But it doesn't crystallize into knowledge until the morning he gets up, shaves, showers, and heads into breakfast. This time, though, the bacon smells rancid to him, and—he's running, suddenly. Running as fast as he can, but he still goes to his knees and vomits in full view of Margaret and Frank. Frank makes a noise of disgust and Margaret's nose wrinkles.

"Too much to drink again, the ninnyhammer," Frank says in a high-pitched whine. "He's a lush. Hope you're not planning to do surgery hungover like that, Pierce," he adds unctuously, and Hawkeye rubs his mouth and wishes he could have thrown up on Frank's boots.

But as soon as they walk by, skirting him widely, he has to acknowledge the truth. Back when he'd been raped on that summer afternoon—and warm weather and sunshine make him nauseous now—he'd been returned to the bosom of the 4077th in rough shape, and Henry had asked him all sorts of awkward questions. Hawkeye had deflected as best he could, and he's pretty sure the only person who knows about the rape is Trapper.

Trapper, who oh so unfortunately woke Hawkeye one night by running his palm up Hawkeye's bare thigh… and he'd reached Hawkeye's hole, fingers sliding inside his army briefs, and even before Hawkeye had recoiled and lashed out with his fist, Trapper had stopped, shocked.

"What is this? You're all ripped up!" he'd exclaimed. "What happened, Hawk?"

Hawkeye couldn't keep the secret from Trapper, who had gone on a midnight rampage in the Swamp, destroying things—mostly Frank's things—in an impotent rage once he understood that Korean soldiers had defiled his lover. Not that Trapper was upset for himself; no, he was the typical alpha male who wanted to do violence to the person who'd hurt his lover. For Hawkeye's sake.

And now Hawkeye is prostrate in the midst of camp, clutching his belly, which aches—and which is just the slightest bit bloated.

Except Hawkeye knows the truth now. Things have fallen into place; it all makes sense.

He's not sick, and he's not bloated: he's pregnant.

_Shit, what is he going to do?_

++

The first thing to do, of course, is tell Trapper. He'd prefer to tell no one, but naturally that's impossible—eventually all would come out in the wash regardless, and at least this way, he can control some small part of it. He couldn't control the rape that caused the baby; he can't control the pregnancy itself; but he _can_ control who holds the knowledge—at least, for now.

But Trapper's shocked visage makes him wonder, as do Trapper's words:

"Is it mine?"

Hawkeye's mouth falls open for a moment, but then he remembers: they had been using condoms, in the rare event that Hawkeye was penetrated, and besides, they hadn't fucked for over two weeks before Hawkeye expects he conceived, which means he has no recourse but the tell the truth—and to tell Trapper in as many words what really happened to him.

"I—" Hawkeye has to pause and try to swallow through his dry mouth. "You remember I was… injured? It was doubtless more than an injury to my pride."

"What're ya sayin', Hawk? Plain speaking, if ya please." Trapper's eyes are worried, his brow furrowed, his blonde curls sweaty where they caress his temples. He looks beautiful; Hawkeye wants to forget the rape, forget the baby, forget everything but taking those cheeks between his hands and kissing those frowning-berry lips. Trapper is everything that is attractive to Hawkeye, and he wants to remember only that fact—he'd pretend if he could. How can he say what needs to be said?

"I was captured by Korean soldiers," he says. "It wasn't exactly capture the flag, either. And now… I'm pregnant. I guess actions really do have consequences." But Trapper's mouth turns down, a wicked curl of unhappiness. Hawkeye supposes his glib words probably aren't helping matters.

"And those actions…" Trapper's eyes widen, and lines bracket his mouth suddenly as the implication becomes clear. "They _raped_ ya, Hawk? How could you stand it? How come ya didn't say anythin' to me?"

"Would you have said something? Besides, I thought you'd guessed." But Trapper seems to be stunned for words. He's staring, those hazel eyes filled with… it's not pity. No. Sympathy. And then he's leaning forward, reaching, tugging Hawkeye to him. Frank is not in the Swamp at the moment, so Trapper cradles Hawkeye's face to his chest, running his fingers through straight-as-sticks hair and crooning as if Hawkeye were one of his own daughters, and as if said daughter was injured thus.

Hawkeye's not at all certain he wants to be _soothed_ like a child. Or a woman. He's not either, and despite the pregnancy, has no desire to be coddled like a woman who has been despoiled.

"I'm fine," he growls, and yanks away. Trapper lets him go… reluctantly. And Hawkeye covers his belly with one hand, suddenly terrified. This baby… this baby could _kill him_. And if he survives the labor, everyone is going to know. "It's half-Korean," he says fatalistically. "I'll never be able to hide his or her origins, and I can't very well give birth in a vacuum. What do I—"

"We'll have to tell Henry and Margaret," Trapper says bracingly. "We need another surgeon besides me and a nurse, and obviously we can't let anyone know what's happening. Or…" he pauses, rubbing his bottom lip in thought. "Or we could get leave, take ya to Tokyo, and have it done there."

"There still has to be some story," Hawkeye says, and as they concoct what they hope is a reasonable explanation for Hawkeye and Trapper returning from Tokyo in possession of a half-Korean baby, Hawkeye mentally prepares for months of hiding his condition.

And over the next few weeks, Trapper helps him obtain a maternity corset, and covers for him when he's nauseous and confined to bed, and helps him in surgery when he's just as nauseated by the sight of blood and organs.

Hawkeye has to keep it a secret. Of course he does. Frank, in particular, wouldn't make any distinction between a pregnancy from being raped, and the fact that he'd just consider Hawkeye a deviant homosexual because of it. As if Hawkeye had begged to be taken by some random Korean soldier.

Hawkeye swigs some gin a few days later, and watches Trapper, peacefully sleeping in the bunk across the way. He huddles over his belly, and drinks until the sun comes up.

++

"Trap," Hawkeye says, shaking Trapper's shoulder. Trapper blinks bleary eyes up at him.

"It's too soon for ya to be in labor. Whatsamatter?" he asks, voice sluggish with sleep. Hawkeye has been hiding this pregnancy for months now—he's showered only with Trapper to keep anyone from seeing him naked, and he's worn the maternity corset. But he was lying sleepless in his cot, and he'd had an idea.

"What if I didn't have to give birth?" he hisses in an undertone, directly next to Trapper's ear. Frank is snoring away across the Swamp, and of course Hawkeye can't afford to wake him, or to be overheard.

"Seems to me ya don't have much choice," Trapper mumbles. "Are ya drunk? Or sleepwalkin'?"

"Trapper," Hawkeye whispers excitedly, trying not to think about the edge of mania that's glimmering in his mind. "I could abort."

Suddenly, Trapper's sitting straight up, Hawkeye's biceps clutched in his big, capable hands. He's wide awake now.

"You'd kill it? Are ya mad, Hawk?"

"It solves every problem, Trap. Right now, I could die. And if I don't die, I could be court-martialed. All for the product of r—assault." He can't quite say the word, not even if it's flashing in his brain like the marquee of a theatre. As if Hawkeye's the star of his own tragedy. He snorts a laugh; in school, Shakespeare's tragedies had seemed so melodramatic. Now Hawkeye's very life is melodrama.

"It ain't funny," Trapper says, brow darkening. He's still gripping Hawkeye by the biceps, and he doesn't even seem to be aware of it. Hawkeye is torn between wanting to lean forward and kiss him, and trying to break his hold. "That's murder, Hawk. You're too far along."

"It isn't born yet," Hawkeye says desperately, feeling his neat and tidy solution drifting away. But from Trapper's expression, he's not convinced.

"Abortion ain't legal, Hawk," he points out. "Not for carriers. I know ya know that. And I know you'd expect me to help ya, and I… I like kids, I can't just—" He stops, lets go of Hawkeye as if disgusted. "Besides, what about your Hippocratic Oath?" Trapper says.

Hawkeye pulls back. He knows that Trapper can't help his feelings—that he's probably just as much concerned with Hawkeye's health as how much he likes kids—but this is so _important._ A baby? In a war zone?

"Trap, listen. If this kid is born, it's gonna end up in a Korean orphanage. Its life is not going to be worth living."

"You can't decide that for it, Hawk." Trapper scrubs his hand down over his face. "And it's too late. You're a doctor; ya know it's too late."

Hawkeye clutches at his belly, feeling it contract against a kick, and knows Trapper is right. He wanted so badly to have this problem dealt with, tied up with a bow and discarded—but deep down he knows he wouldn't have been able to discard his own baby, no matter how many self-recriminations or how much he doubts his ability to love a baby born from… that incident. Particularly when it was perpetrated by the enemy in the middle of a war. Won't that conflict of interest translate into how he feels about the baby?

Trapper must be able to see Hawkeye wavering, because he searches Hawkeye's eyes.

"You're not gonna be raisin' it, Hawk. Ya don't have to look so bleak."

Hawkeye turns and plops down on the bunk in front of Trapper's belly. His own is too round now for Trapper to be able to do the same to him, and that depresses him. Even more depressing is that he hasn't been able to tolerate a sexual touch from Trapper—hell, from anyone—since the incident. The slightest sexual suggestion and Hawkeye's very balls crawl up into his body, and his flesh shrinks away.

He wonders what Sidney would think about this whole thing. Would he say that Hawkeye wants to kill the baby because he wants to kill that part of him that was violated? To get back his pre-incident carelessness?

Trapper's hand brushes the top of his ass as Trapper moves in the cot, and Hawkeye flinches. A gusty sigh emanates from Trapper behind him, and Hawkeye gets to his feet, stiffly, aware only of a sudden, horrific, nauseating desire to get away.

"Hawk, wait—" Trapper says, but he's gone, running through the compound, running straight to the demarcation of the minefield, where he falls to his knees, gasping for breath.

He can't do this. He can't have this baby, and he can't kill it, either.

There's only one other option, and Hawkeye doesn't want to do it, but he has no choice. He gets to his feet.

His feet brought him here without him realizing, because somewhere he must have known this was his last resort. He lifts his foot to take a step.

And sets it down.

++

Hawkeye awakens in the Swamp. He's confused and disoriented, wondering how he got there, when Trapper's face swims into focus. And he remembers.

Arms, coming around him, his own arms windmilling, and then falling backward… his head had cracked against Trapper's chin—because of course it was Trapper—and he'd been knocked unconscious.

"Ya fucking idiot," Trapper growls, face white beneath his usual tan. He's breathing heavily, as if fighting off panic. "Ya could have _died_." Something in Hawkeye's face must register as guilt, because Trapper leaps to his feet, eyes dark, face thunderous. "That's what ya fuckin' _wanted_ , ain't it? God, Hawk."

"Trap—"

"No, don't talk to me." Trapper stalks off to his own cot, and silence descends like a claustrophobic Korean night, when the shells exploding drown out the night noises and everything seems to sink beneath the weight. Hawkeye supposes that's not really _silence_ , yet _this_ silence is weighted like an explosion, louder for all of its quietness.

Hawkeye watches him, heart thumping slowly and deliberately in his chest, and wonders if he just lost his best friend.

"I'd call Sidney for ya, if ya didn't have that nine-month secret ya gotta keep," Trapper says, and then he slumps onto his side in his bunk, yanking the blanket over him, boots and all, and Hawkeye understands that this conversation is closed.

What has he done to them? And yet, how could he not have done it? How can he go on, especially now, knowing that this untenable situation has only one expiration date—and it's not the one he had control over?

Sleep eludes him, so he wanders to the still, and proceeds to get roaring drunk. If he can't do anything else… at least he can still do this.

++

When Hawkeye comes back from leave and Trapper is gone, and he didn't leave a note, Hawkeye can only conclude he destroyed their relationship much more effectively than he managed to destroy himself or his unborn child. And he can't confide in BJ; Henry's gone, and Hawkeye can't see any way through this muddle.

But all of that ceases to matter the night they're all trapped on a bus in the middle of nowhere, North Koreans out in the darkness somewhere, and the need for silence paramount.

And a Korean woman smothers her chicken—and Hawkeye's mind breaks.

++

"Hawkeye," Sidney says. "Tell me again about the chicken."

Sobbing, Hawkeye rocks back and forth on the narrow little bed in the asylum, knowing somewhere what Sidney wants, but unable to articulate it. His sharp mind, his wicked tongue, have deserted him, and his mind is working against him.

He cradles his belly—but it's oddly flattened, and there's something there, something Hawkeye needs to _remember_ —but it's gone, he can't recall, just that something doesn't feel right.

"Hawkeye," Sidney says patiently, and Hawkeye rocks and rocks, tears clumping his lashes together and making vision impossible. Something's missing… what is it?

Why can't he remember?

"She killed it," he says, voice a thready little whine. "She killed the chicken to keep it quiet."

"Why does this chicken's death horrify you so much, Hawkeye?" Sidney asks, and Hawkeye can't think, he can't _think_. He grabs his belly, strangely poochy, but the skin there seems slack and loose. He blinks, and he sees that Korean soldier again. He recognizes that face, but when did he see him? Where? Was he a casualty that Hawkeye treated? Or, no—

"The baby," Hawkeye gasps, winded by the memories. "I—" He stops, sudden like a heart attack, and rubs his empty belly. It's almost like he can feel that phantom ache in his ass again. That pain that followed him for weeks after the incident, like how he'd feel after a night with Trapper, only he hadn't been able to stomach Trapper again, and it had all been in his head. He knew that then.

What happened to his baby? He'd been pregnant. He can feel the surgical scars beneath his thin shirt, but Sidney is simply watching him, face impassive, despite the storm raging in Hawkeye's body and mind, right in front of him.

"The baby?" Sidney asks, deceptively softly. "What baby, Hawkeye?"

"Mine—" Shock ripples through him as memory reasserts itself again, his brain rearranging things he knew as truth until five seconds ago. "No. On the bus. Oh, God. She killed it. She smothered her own _baby_." He must look as shattered as he feels, because Sidney's eyes are full of compassion.

"That's enough for today, Hawkeye," Sidney says gently, and he gets up to be let out of the room.

"My baby?" Hawkeye asks, tears drying sticky on his cheeks.

"Not today. We'll talk about it tomorrow," Sidney says, and Hawkeye thinks there's a reticence there. As Sidney leaves, and the door locks behind him, Hawkeye has a terrible thought. What is Sidney keeping from him? Will he be here permanently, because he'd given birth? Did the army pass judgment on him already?

_She smothered it, her own baby,_ Hawkeye thinks, staring at the whitewashed door. _What did_ I _do? What might I have done?_

But there are no answers for him that night. By morning, Hawkeye's forgotten everything, mind a blank, body boneless on his bed, eyes staring unseeing at the wall.

Sidney tries to rouse him, but Hawkeye is deep, deep inside his mind, in a little locked room, a little boy punished for stealing apples from a neighbor's orchard, terrified to come out.

Too terrified to face the possible truth, or his future, so he simply lies there, locked in that battle with his mind.

Locked up, and locked in, forever.

END


End file.
